Chapter 6
Ivy did not see Owen much over the next week.
Despite her best attempts to end up in his path, he was almost always accompanied by the dowager.
Ivy had even slipped into the stables early one morning, certain she would catch him alone, but when she had approached the open tack room door, she had heard him grumbling to the stable master.
“She is everywhere,” he had growled. “It is as if there are triplicates of her. I do not understand how she manages it.”
Ivy pressed her ear to the wall. Who could he mean?
“’Tis not my place to comment,” the old stable groom had replied, “but it does appear that Lady Brackley has multiplied.”
Owen, or perhaps the horse, had snorted, and then there had been no more talk.
When she heard footsteps coming her way, she had slipped from the barn and returned to the house.
She was certain the Dove would contact her soon—perhaps even come to her class again that night—and so far she had been entirely useless in unearthing any information about the viscount, other than the fact that his intaglio pin was of his mother’s family crest, suggesting a particular fondness for her.
As for listening in on the servants, the gossip had run from admiring—“Did you see the front parlor? Brand-new carpet!” “Our wages were paid on time this week, and Mrs. Akers said there might be an increase in the future!”—to scornful—“How does he not see what the dowager is plotting?” “Master best watch himself if he dun’t want to end up wed to that viper Miss Pithins. ”
None of the chatter had been useful, other than the confirmation that the dowager was indeed attempting to arrange a union with Miss Pithins. Ivy needed more information, and since she was apparently not going to get it from the man himself, she would have to pivot her strategy.
She got her chance later that day. The children were eating their noon meal in the nursery with the nannies when Ivy looked out the window and spotted the viscount frowning as he held the bridle of a horse.
The dowager and Miss Pithins were standing with him beneath the drifting maple leaves and gesturing toward the stables.
Ivy took a moment to study Miss Pithins.
By now, she had heard the woman’s praises sung so continuously that she half-expected her to be an angel.
And although she did appear lovely from afar, with fair hair, smooth skin, and a fashionable riding habit, Ivy did not think there was anything particularly extraordinary about her.
She wondered if the viscount agreed or if he had been swayed by the dowager’s opinion.
Everyone was occupied, and Ivy realized she might never have a better opportunity to snoop for information.
She hurried to the second-floor east wing where she knew Brackley kept his quarters.
She tried to appear natural in case any of the servants spotted her, but her heart was pounding in her chest and her palms were sweating.
Give her an opponent with a fencing foil over this clandestine nonsense any day!
Her feet were soundless on the worn, once red and now pink carpet.
When she reached his chamber, she paused outside the heavy door, looked left and right, and twisted the knob.
She half expected it to be locked, but to her surprise it turned easily, and the door swung inward with a whisper across the carpet.
Ivy quickly closed the door behind her, her heart so loud in her ears that she could barely think.
The drapes had been opened, allowing afternoon sunlight into the room.
His quarters lacked all personality, and aside from the trunk pushed against the wall, could have passed as any other guest room in the house.
Lord Brackley had flat-out refused to take his father’s quarters or his boyhood chamber, instead claiming one of the dozen guest rooms even though it was far less grand.
The servants were still scandalized that the master suite sat empty.
The tall, four-poster bed took up most of the space in the room, and opposite was an empty fireplace, wood stacked beside it and ready to burn for when the viscount returned that evening.
If Owen were in the viscount suite, he would have a number of other rooms connected to his own, but this was a guest chamber, so it suitably narrowed down the places she had to search.
Ivy went to the desk first, her fingers trembling as she pulled open a drawer. She found the typical objects: a letter opener, a well of ink, pens, wax, and matches. In the second drawer there was a stack of blank paper printed with the Brackley crest.
Atop the desk, a half-written letter lay open.
She bent close so she could read it without shifting the paper, afraid that if she did, he might notice that the angle of the unfinished letter was no longer perfectly suited to his hand.
It was a missive to his property manager in Prussia, requesting that some of his horse tack be sent to the estate.
Ivy made sure all the drawers were closed and turned her attention to the trunk.
Distaste at riffling through someone else’s possessions coated her tongue, and yet she lifted the lid anyway.
Immediately Owen’s scent filled her nostrils.
Although most of his clothing hung in the wardrobe, there were still a number of starched and folded cravats in the trunk, along with a bottle that she was sure was the source of the scent: something clean and light and woodsy.
Ivy gingerly searched through his belongings, until at the bottom of the trunk she found a neat bundle of letters tied together by a string.
She pulled it loose and sat down, hugging the bundle to her chest. Did she have time to look them over, or should she take them to her chamber and return them later?
The thought of trying to sneak back into his bedchamber was too unwelcome, and it was possible he would notice the letters missing in the meantime.
Her mind made up, Ivy untied the bundle and quickly began to sort through them.
Most of the letters were correspondence between Owen and his various solicitors and property managers, and the rest were about equine sales he had made, all of the buyers seeming pleased with their transactions.
There was no evidence that he was cheating his customers or being unscrupulous in his business practice.
Ivy was about to return the bundle when she spotted a letter stuck to the back of a request for a mare by its wax seal. She peeled the letter away, and her heart blipped when she read the salutation:
My Dearest Lover,
The bell chimed the time, and Ivy started with alarm.
She was expected back in the schoolroom now.
She stuffed the private letter down the bosom of her gown, quickly retied the bundle, and returned it to the chest. She bit her tongue when she cracked the door and peeked into the corridor.
To her enormous relief it was clear, and she raced down the carpet to the schoolroom, the letter burning against her skin.